


christmas isn't christmas (until it happens in your heart and/or people are suitably traumatised)

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Christmas, Crack, Fluff, Gift Fic, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, what the actual heck Alec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Alec is a slippery bastard, he’s gone by the time Q is done playing Holiday-Conscious Branch Manager with Mallory and Q doesn’t have anyone within his immediate vicinity that he can yell at without feeling guilty.</p><p>Which means, of course, he ends up calling Bond.</p><p>“Not a good time, Q,” Bond says the moment he picks up and Q checks himself for a second, wondering if Bond has somehow gotten himself embroiled in some matter of international security since they last saw each other at breakfast. “And if this is about Alec, I <i>really</i> don’t want to talk about it at the moment.”</p><p>“Well tough, because that’s precisely why I’m calling.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	christmas isn't christmas (until it happens in your heart and/or people are suitably traumatised)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 00Q New Year Party Exchange 2013/2014 for [adreaminglamb](http://adreaminglamb.tumblr.com/), who wanted "Alec and Moneypenny tries to get Bond to kiss Q under mistletoe."

In retrospect, it’s probably a fantastically _stupid_ idea to discuss holiday plans with Alec Trevelyan. Or go drinking with the man. Or do anything with Alec, in general, especially if said thing involves ingesting 1.5x more than the recommended alcohol intake for the average English male.

But then again, Bond recently crashed a two-seater plane into a burning building in Moldova (on purpose, mind you) so no one can really fault his life choices at this point.

Really.

“You, my friend,–” Alec says as he chases half a sniffer of Macallan down with some lightly salted pretzels, “–are going to have to celebrate Christmas in style this year.”

Bond looks blearily into the depths of his vodka and contemplates drinking it all before Alec tries to explain himself any further. Should he be drunk before subjecting himself to Trevelyan logic? What if he needs to be more drunk after hearing previously mentioned logic (or lack of, thereof)?

“Not that you’re not stylish for the rest of the year–” Alec continues on with a vague hand movement that’s supposed to encompass the entirety of Bond, tailored Zegna suit and all, “–but you know, figure of speech, et cetera et cetera. What I’m trying to say is, now that you’ve went and gotten yourself settled down, nice and cosy with all the domestic trimmings, this Christmas absolutely has to be a fucking special one, doesn’t it?”

"I don't think Q cares much for Christmas,” is all Bond says dully, even as he feels his hand inching towards his glass. Trust Alec to think of serrated blades in the toothbrush mug and half-modified, entirely forgotten AK-47s in the sock drawer as domestic. “And even if he did, I _really_ don’t see any reason why we need to make it more special than any other day of the year."

Well alright, so maybe it’s the first Christmas Bond is spending with someone else’s things mixed up with his and vice versa in both their living spaces, never mind how most of said things consist of dangerous weaponry.

And _maybe_ this Christmas also marks the first time in years that Bond’s in a somewhat stable and mostly long-term relationship with someone who isn't actively trying to kill him, daily death threats courtesy of Q Branch notwithstanding.

The way Bond sees it, sharing the festive season with Q is hardly an occasion for teary-eyed and heartfelt outpourings of emotion. A Hallmark card his life is not, and neither is Q's, which suits Bond perfectly fine, thank you very much.

Alec obviously thinks otherwise.

"You're heartless," Alec hisses dramatically over his whiskey and this is a sign for Bond to take a much needed mouthful of alcohol. "Bloody heartless. Christmas is supposed to be a time of...of family! Love and thankfulness and all of that."

"Christmas is a celebration of consumer capitalism, thus contributing to the commercialisation and commodification of religion for the unwashed masses," Bond parrots obediently (Q has Many Feelings about Christmas) but he could have been speaking in Ancient Greek for all Alec cares, given how the man is working himself up into a well-meaning frenzy about the true meaning of Christmas.

"I mean, is there anything better than sharing Christmastime with someone you love? Slow dancing on Christmas Eve by the fireplace, kissing under mistletoe..."

Bond wants to counter that shooting a human trafficker in the face before cliff diving into the Mediterranean while buildings explode behind him ranks pretty goddamned high on the Best Things Ever Done list, but there's no stopping Alec now that he's gotten into one of his more emotional, inebriated moods, so Bond just nods along.

"First Christmases should be done right," Alec continues a little dreamily. "You only get one chance like this, you know, and you should make it memorable. Something the both of you can fondly look back on in the future."

“I’d rather shoot myself in the head,” mutters Bond.

“Don’t be such a grinch.” Alec clasps Bond’s shoulder with a firm hand, leaning in a little. “Have you even asked Q what he wants to do for Christmas? Do you even have a tree? Eggnog recipes?” There’s a slightly feverish light in Alec’s eyes as he rounds on Bond and if Bond wasn’t the hardened SIS agent that he is, he would have backed away in abject terror.

Instead, Bond just orders another vodka on the rocks and contemplatively eats the last of Alec’s pretzels.

“No, no and no,” Bond says. “For the record, I don’t need to ask what I already know, pine needles are hell to clean out of the carpet and _why_ on earth would you drink eggnog when you can just have brandy?”

Alec doesn’t quite recoil in horror, but he does come quite close to it, downing the last half of his drink as a steadying gesture.

“Blasphemy,” Alec hisses. “Please tell me that jaded agent exterior of yours is just a facade and you're not actually so emotionally dead on the inside.”

“I killed my first target at 21, what do you expect? Puppies and coloured streamers?”

“I, for one,–” proclaims Alec with an affected air, “–and the rest of MI6 expect at least a bit of effort from the man who’s practically married to the youngest quartermaster this fine agency has ever seen.”

“Oh for the love of god.” Bond knows exactly where this conversation is leading to and doesn't like it one bit. "Are we really going to go through this again? Really, Alec?"

“How do you think Q is going to feel when Christmas Eve comes around and you have nothing to show for it?” Alec barrels on and thumps his glass down on the bar table for added effect, though Bond is hardly cowed by it. "How do you think the rest of _us_ will feel when it comes to light that you're content to feed Q Chinese takeout for Christmas Eve dinner?"

"Q happens to like Chinese-"

"No," declares Alec sternly and Bond is legitimately two seconds away from throwing his hands up in defeat, knowing full well that Alec has gone beyond saving now. "No, you're going to give Q a proper, loving Christmas like the one he deserves and I'm going to see to it before you ruin it all like the emotionally stunted modern-day Scrooge that you are."

"Go on, I don't think that description of me and my relationship was quite flattering enough," Bond mutters as he gulps down his new order of vodka in two swigs.

"You're going to celebrate Christmas with all the right trimmings."

"But-"

"With mistletoe as well, of course." Alec leans towards Bond, a look of utter seriousness on his face. "We-"

"Who the fuck is _we_?"

"-are going to make sure you and Q experience the best Christmas of your bloody lives."

  


* * *

  


It's not like Eve wanted to get roped into this whole startlingly festive, potentially bauble-filled exercise in futility. Don't get her wrong, Eve loves Christmas as much as the next person, but sometimes Alec channels the reasons why he's such a good field agent into considerably...different pursuits, and things never end well for the people involved. Like that one time with the giant inflatable duck and the Naval Service’s amphibious light infantry.

Alec hasn’t been invited back to conduct training exercises ever since.

"I'm sorry, but did you say _fifty_?"

"Yes," Eve says in the most neutral tone she can manage. "That's fifty, as in five-zero."

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line and Eve uses the time to inspect one fingernail, absently wondering if the perimeters of Alec’s request allow for an untraceable body trail.

"So that’s...fifty kilograms of mistletoe?” the man says a little faintly. “To Vauxhall?”

“To the Vauxhall address this Sunday night at 11pm, yes.”

“Noted. Thank you for your order, Ms. Trevelyan, we’ll contact you in a few hours with our final price quotation and preferred payment methods. Please do note that on top of the product price, there’ll be a surcharge for the delivery time.”

“Not a problem, Mark. Have a good Christmas."

"And Merry Christmas to you too, Ms. Trevelyan."

Coincidentally, it’s also not like Eve also wanted to have Alec find out that she was the one who had accidentally knocked over Mallory's potted Christmas fir and made two painstakingly cultivated branches snap off, but you can’t have everything in life, can you?

Eve allows herself a sigh once the line cuts off.

Evidently, it’s not Christmas at MI6 until there's some form of blackmail involved.

  


* * *

  


“What–” Q says expressively the moment he walks into his branch, “–in the name of god happened here?” It’s Monday morning, Christmas Eve is tomorrow and every available surface above his head seems to be infested with greenery.

“It appears to be mistletoe, sir,” suggests a nearby underling in a meek voice and Q doesn’t even spare his 4th best coder a glance as he stares up at what used to be his branch ceiling. Indeed, there’s a familiar look to the plants currently crowding every square inch of space available, some of the sprigs even tied together with little red ribbons and affixed with miniature bells that jingle under the splutter of centralised heating. “We came in this morning and it was just...everywhere.”

“And no one thought to call maintenance to get it down?”

A leaf drifts down from on high to land on the floor tiles, as if taking personal offence at the very idea of being forcibly removed.

“We, uh...”

“What about the CCTVs?” prompts Q when it becomes evident that at this point, Fourth-Best Coder is in no position to give accurate and precise answers. Hide the ceiling with mistletoe and suddenly everyone loses their god-given minds. No wonder Q hates Christmas the same way computer programers hate drastic changes to daily routines.“Has anyone gotten a look at last night’s logs and footage?”

“About that...” Fourth-Best Coder might actually be trying to slink away now, inching out of Q’s peripheral vision when Q casts another irritated look up at the mess currently fucking with his depth perception. Is the ceiling actually _that_ low all the time? “We couldn’t retrieve anything from the last twelve hours because there were uh,...complications.”

“Complications,” Q says flatly in a tone of voice that most of Q Branch and one James Bond knows far too intimately. Things that follow after it often involve vulgarities, pain and explosives. “Pray, do share with me what sort of _complications_ are preventing me from finding out who turned my branch into a greenhouse?”

“Well you see, sir...” With some hand waving, Q’s attention is drawn to the nearest corner, where one CCTV is currently–

“Fuck,” Q swears with immense feeling. Fourth-Best Coder is nodding along vigorously in agreement, now almost back within arm’s reach of his desk and a good distance away from Q. “Those were brand new cameras.”

“They even managed to take out the rigging, sir, and the surrounding wall areas have sustained some cosmetic damage. Also, maintenance can’t remove the mistletoe because current regulations prevent the tampering of sites where non-sanctioned firearm discharges have taken place, at least not until the relevant reports and investigations have been carried out.”

Now that Fourth-Best Coder is behind the relative safety of his desk, he seems a little more capable of stringing together sentences beyond primary school level, even if the information he’s finally conveying like a proper, clearance level 5 adult is hardly anything that Q wants to hear. At the rate paperwork goes through the system during holiday season, Q branch might very well be drowning in mistletoe until late February.

“Patch me into the double-oh department,” snaps Q as he begins the long, leaf-strewn walk towards the main screens. “And get the ballistics reports started, if you haven’t already. Only two people in this agency are insufferable enough to do this and I know for a fact which one of them wasn’t wasting perfectly good bullets shooting up government property last night.”

“Yessir, understood sir.”

“And good grief,–” Q scrunches his nose in irritation as he sidesteps smudges of green on the ground, “–get someone to clean this off the floor while you’re at it.”

  


* * *

  


Alec’s mobile rings when he’s in the middle of patting Bond down for any potential sharp objects the latter might be hiding in his clothes.

“You going to get that?” Bond asks dryly as Alec runs two fingers against the top of Bond’s socks. Of course, Alec wouldn’t be Alec if he didn’t take all the necessary precautions and Bond wouldn’t be Bond if he didn’t require all the necessary precautions, even while strapped to a (reasonably comfortable) chair with his hands tied behind his back.

“In a second. Nice ankle sheath, by the way.” Alec straightens from where he had been kneeling on the ground, patting Bond’s knee in a friendly way. “Russian?”

It’s actually Japanese and custom-made, but Bond doesn’t really feel like small talk right now, so he settles for an unamused glare instead. Alec beams.

“Oh come on, I didn’t even tie them that tight.”

“Are we going to ignore the fact that you fucking _drugged_ me and tied me up to begin with?”

A noncommittal shrug and Alec fishes around his pockets for his still-ringing mobile, one hand clasped over Bond’s mouth when he finally picks up.

“Trevelyan,” Alec says cheerily. “What can I do for you, Q?” Against his palm, Bond lets out a sullen grunt of disapproval. “Ah, so the delivery did–...oh. Yes. Hmm.”

Alec holds the mobile a little further away from his ear at this point and Bond swears he can hear Q’s yelling even from where he’s sitting, the sound of Q’s diamond-cut public school syllables tinny yet painfully sharp. The words “fucking mistletoe” seem to be featuring a disturbing number of times in this one-sided conversation, Alec wincing when Q starts to add “goddamn double-oh agents” into the mix as well.

In the same way a person witnessing a public execution might feel both extremely upset at the proceedings while still grateful at not actually being directly involved, Bond is somewhat glad that he’s currently hogtied to a chair and not on the receiving side of Q’s expletive-laden wrath.

“I see,” sighs Alec after Q seems to have exhausted his impressive repertoire of death threats and promises of grievous bodily harm. “I’ll let Bond know as well, the moment I see him.”

Another objecting grunt from Bond goes unnoticed by all parties.

“No, sorry love,” Alec continues on blithely. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

An added eye roll this time, Bond briefly considering biting Alec’s fingers out of sheer spite and then quickly backtracking on the idea because god knows where those have been.

As it turns out, Bond doesn’t have to deliberate for too long when the offending hand is removed a mere few seconds later, Q apparently having hung up in sheer disgust. Bond draws in his first breath of fresh air in ten minutes before telling Alec that he’s a bloody idiot.

“You’re a bloody idiot, Alec,” Bond sighs.

“Q seems to think so too, but that’s because he’s still young and impressionable and has been hanging around you for far too long.”

Bond doesn’t think he should even acknowledge that with an answer, so he settles for a sullen heargh instead.

“You know, we wouldn’t even have to employ such extreme measures if you’d just subscribe to the Food Network. Or at least download a few recipes if you refuse to buy cookbooks.” Alec turns to fiddle with the laptop on the table in front of Bond, the device propped up at a slight slant for optimal ease of viewing. “How’s the volume? Any screen glare? Q wants to see me in his branch ASAP so I won’t be around to adjust anything for you until later.”

“Wait, you're just going to leave me here?”

“Relax, you’ll have Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver and even Paula Deen for company. Paula’s Home Cooking Christmas Special from 2010 is quite lovely, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh _fuck_ off.”

  


* * *

  


“Q,” Alec greets cordially as he saunters into MI6’s second-most feared area after the double-oh rec room. “Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

“Don’t think that just because I don’t have physical evidence of you being involved in this, I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” growls Q in return from where he’s aggressively filling in maintenance request forms at his desk, pen nib almost tearing the paper when he signs off on the first of twelve, wholly unnecessary pages. There had been twenty-one, for the ballistics report, and at this point, Q is about three sentences away from stabbing the next annoying person in the jugular with his pen.

Which is of course perfect timing for Mallory to walk in, Eve in tow.

“Oh,” Mallory says just as Q gets abruptly to his feet, pen skittering on the paper and effectively ruining page three. “Very lovely. Very, very lovely indeed.”

“Sir?”

“Moneypenny was just saying that some of the departments really got into the Christmas spirit this year and I thought I’d come down myself to have a look.” Mallory looks up at the mistletoe-infested ceiling and Q catches Eve making an apologetic face at him, which of course just sets off alarm bells because if Eve is apologetic, that can only mean one thing:

Things are only going to get much, much worse from here.

“It...was an impulse decision, sir," Q finally says.

“Yes, Moneypenny did tell me as much. Good job, though, it must have been hard to get that amount up in one night. That said,–” A slight pause as Mallory steps back from a mistletoe leaf that’s drifting down merrily from the ceiling, “–it’s all a bit...green, isn’t it? Maybe a bit of tinsel will make things more festive?”

“Indeed,” Q says faintly and behind him, Q can hear Alec stifling a snort. Fucking bastard. “I’ll make a note of it, sir.”

“Good man. It’s nice to see branch managers take some initiative with holiday decorations around here; we hardly know what month of the year it is, most days.”

Not that any poor soul who happened to gaze upon the Christmassy monstrosity that was now Q Branch would have any cause to doubt that Christmas has indeed come to MI6, but Q wisely keeps his opinions to himself. Instead, he nods along with Mallory, following his superior around as Mallory points out some ideal places for additional decorations.

A few steps behind, Alec and Eve tail them both like the insufferable field agents that they are, engaged in their own whispered conversation that seems to involve a lot of violent hand gestures on Eve’s part.

Christmas this year, it seems, is going to be a long affair at the office.

  


* * *

  


Because Alec is a slippery bastard, he’s gone by the time Q is done playing Holiday-Conscious Branch Manager with Mallory and Q doesn’t have anyone within his immediate vicinity that he can yell at without feeling guilty.

Which means, of course, he ends up calling Bond.

“Not a good time, Q,” Bond says the moment he picks up and Q checks himself for a second, wondering if Bond has somehow gotten himself embroiled in some matter of international security since they last saw each other at breakfast. “And if this is about Alec, I _really_ don’t want to talk about it at the moment.”

“Well tough, because that’s precisely why I’m calling.” In the background, something metal-sounding scrapes across the floor and there’s the unmistakeable sound of a door being broken down, Bond grunting over the line. Q pinches the bridge of his nose to fend off the headache that’s threatening to brew. Of course Bond would be in a situation that needs him to break a door down at 11am in the morning on a Thursday. Of course.

“You know what,” Q finally says. “I’ll just call you back at a better time.”

“Five minutes, broom closet on the 5th floor.”

“What?”

But then the line goes dead and Q definitely has a migraine now.

  


* * *

  


Bond is squeezed between a bottle of bleach and a disused mop from what Q thinks is the late 1800s when Q finds him. In the broom closet on the 5th floor, no less.

“Care to tell me why we’re meeting at such a...clandestine location?”

Bond pats an overturned bucket next to him and Q sits down, wobbling slightly.

“Alec,” Bond says gravely by means of explanation. “He’s gone insane.”

“How about you tell me something I don’t know, Bond? Have you even seen my branch this morning?”

“I haven’t, actually, given how I was tied to a chair in Interrogation Room 1 for most of the past two hours.”

The door breaking suddenly makes a bit more sense now, though Q doesn’t think he wants to know anything more about Bond’s mid-morning activities. A contemplative silence settles between the both of them and Q finally scoots his bucket a little closer to Bond’s, if only to get away from the frankly very disturbing mop that seems to be watching him from the corner. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Confined places are Not Very Nice, in Q’s books.

“So what did Alec do to your branch?” Bond asks at length.

“Filled the ceilings with mistletoe and shot out the cameras to hide the evidence. What did he do to you?”

“Forced me to sit through two hours of Christmas cooking shows. I swear, if I see another creative way to use turkey leftovers, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“You’re hardy responsible for them as it is right now.”

This is met with a light shove that has Q wobbling a little more on his bucket, not quite flailing, but definitely grabbing Bond’s shirt because if he goes down, he’s taking Bond down with him, dammit.

“Infant,” Q snaps without heat once he’s righted himself.

“We’re hiding in a broom closet from 006, I don’t think we have the luxury of that sort of name calling right now.”

“ _You’re_ hiding, you mean,” Q says pointedly. “I, on the other hand, can walk out of here right now without too much consequence."

“But you won’t.”

“Oh?”

Even in the half dark, Q can make out the way Bond is grinning, the way that his impromptu grab at Bond’s shoulder has pulled the other man’s shirt collar all askew.

Q grins right back.

“You know what, I think you just might be right, Mr. Bond. I won’t.”

  


* * *

  


But then Q’s mobile rings 15 minutes later, a blaring rendition of Here Comes Santa Claus that Q knows, without any shadow of doubt, he didn’t set as his ring tone. 

Q doesn’t walk out of the broom closet as much as he storms out, promising to murder one Alec Trevelyan all the way.

Bond is going to _kill_ Alec.

  


* * *

  


The thing about killing another person is that this is notoriously hard to achieve when said person refuses to be found. Secretly, Bond thinks it’s for the better, because there’s only so much information on cranberry sauce a man can watch in a day, but appearances are appearances and Bond ends up stalking through the halls for a while, trying to intimidate people into telling him where Alec is. No one seems willing to talk, though.

Thank _god_.

There’s also the matter of the rather ungainly floor cleaner stain on the side of Bond’s shirt that Bond thinks he should deal with at some point in the day, seeing that it’s starting to attract some curious looks. Light blue is not a good colour to be wearing around on oneself, apparently.

Just down the corridor from where the double-oh rec room is, a similarly well-appointed (read: fireproof with reinforced, heavy duty, pleasant-on-the-eye wallpaper) space houses the double-oh lockers. Spare clothes, extra ammunition, a horde of Readers Digests or Guns Monthly and the odd keepsake or three crowd the personal spaces here and Bond is already yanking the door to his open when–

“Fuck,” Bond mutters and almost slams the locker back shut in a vain attempt to pretend that this isn't actually happening to him. “ _Fuck._ ”

  


* * *

  


“Alec?” Q asks sympathetically when Bond stalks into his branch half an hour later, wearing what can only be loosely described as the most horrendous Christmas sweater known to mankind. A badly embroidered Christmas tree fights for space with two, prancing reindeer who either look like they’re in the throes of violent lovemaking or are attempting to maul each other. Bond hasn’t looked closely enough to determine which, and neither does he want to. Fuchsia is terrible colour to contemplate for too long.

“Alec,” Bond confirms. Truth be told, the soft wool is actually a good deal more comfortable than the suit Bond had been hoping to find and wear, even though he’d rather garrote himself than admit it to anyone. “This seemed like the least offensive one.”

“In that case, please never show me the rest.” Q waves Bond over to the corner where Bond usually spends his downtime at HQ being a comfortable nuisance. “Also, leave the bullpens alone this time around, will you? You’re going to distress my staff and cause multiple system failures if you walk around wearing that.”

“Would you rather I go shirtless, then?”

“I’d rather you keep those suggestions to yourself while I’m working, but that’s like asking a circle to stop being round. Or Alec to stop being whatever he's doing.”

“Better chance with a square circle there.”

Q lobs a wadded up printout at Bond then, to make him go away and Bond just catches it deftly, unscrunching it as he ambles towards his usual post.

November’s budget. Huh.

Who knew programmers ate that many digestive biscuits.

  


* * *

  


It’s 9am on Christmas Eve and Q has more or less crawled into his usual morning carafe of coffee, alternating between grunting and snarling at anyone stupid enough to talk to him before 10am.

Which means, of course, it’s just like any other day of the year.

“You’re at work on Christmas,” Alec says as he does that looming, double-oh thing that Q hates. Then again, Q pretty much hates everything right now, so Alec isn’t that much of a special snowflake. “It’s Christmas.”

“You’re at work too, in case you haven’t noticed,” Q points out. “And it’s not Christmas for another 15 hours so go away, Trevelyan.”

Alec blessedly wanders away after that and Q is too sleep-deprived right now to think anything of how easy the whole process was.

That is, until the Christmas songs start blaring on the PA system and Q almost spills half a litre of Jamaican dark roast on himself, all to the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra declaring that he loves those J-I-N-G-L-E bells.

  


* * *

  


This time, it’s Bond who meets Q in the broom closet after lunch.

“He’s gone rogue,” Q hisses in a slightly panicked tone as he flails at Bond to close the door behind him, plunging the both of them into semi-darkness once again. “Alec. I swear, he’s actually gone rogue or insane or both because of Christmas.”

“Don’t say the C-word,” Bond mutters as he drags his bucket closer to Q’s. There’s a distinct smell of cinnamon and nutmeg around him, Q quickly deciding that it’s better to just not ask about it at the moment. “Just...don’t.”

“There’s enough tinsel in my branch to choke a horse.”

“My car stereo won’t stop playing Michael Bublé’s Christmas album, even when the engine is turned off. Can it even do that?”

“He scared all my staff into wearing elf hats and they won't take them off. ”

“I just sat through a baking class.”

A moment of shocked silence stretches between them before Q pats Bond’s arm in quiet understanding

“I’m sorry,” Q offers.

Bond sighs and reaches into his jacket.

“Not your fault. Gingerbreadman?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

  


* * *

  


The felt reindeer antlers and industrial-strength tube of superglue that Alec happily totes around all afternoon is the last straw for both of them, Q finally caving to pressure and a healthy dose of fear to file for a two-day emergency leave.

Bond on the other hand, simply leaves MI6 without rhyme or reason, because that’s what double-oh agents do.

"I feel strange," Q admits as he falls onto his couch in a graceless sprawl, Bond dropping onto the cushions next to him. "It's 6pm on a work day and I'm not trying to prevent a terrorist attack."

"Christmas Eve isn't technically a workday," Bond points out reasonably. "But since we're on the topic, it is actually quite relaxing to not get shot or engage in evasive driving over Christmas."

“Unless you count the Tube, earlier.” Q rolls over to drape his feet over Bond’s lap, head pillowed on his end of the couch. “Even though that’s more confrontational seat hogging and combative door-diving than anything. Remind me again to _never_ bring you on public transport.”

“Look at you, assuming that I’ll actually willingly go on public transport ever again.”

Bond flicks at one sock-covered toe and Q grins, the both of them eventually settling down with a sigh. 

"This is...shockingly domestic, isn’t it?” voices Q when Bond shifts a little under his feet, jostling Q out of the warm, comfortable and blissfully Alec-less stupor he had been drifting off into. “Staying home during Christmas. Not preventing any civil wars or tracking illegal arms dealers across the continent. "

"Can't say I'm complaining." Bond has his feet up on Q's coffee table and in the spirit of Christmas and Mostly Not Giving A Fuck Anymore Because Bond Never Listens Anyways, Q doesn't make him take them down. "Though the Christmas dinner might be a bit of an overkill. I didn't think you had it in you, after Alec."

There's a loaded pause as Q unsprawls himself, sitting up very straight.

"What Christmas dinner?"

"The one sitting on the kitchen table?" Bond cranes his neck around to peer over the couch. "It's right there. I saw it when we came in a moment ago and I'm looking straight at it now."

Another pause.

“You...didn’t order Christmas dinner, did you?” says Bond slowly. He looks about 3 seconds away from going for one of the multiple guns he has on his person, even though Q wants to point out that firearms don’t work too well against food.

But then again, this is Alec’s doing, so one can never really know.

"Do you think it's poisoned?" asks Q in actual seriousness as he untangles himself. Bond can only shrug.

"Blades in the mashed potatoes, maybe. Or explosives in the stuffing."

"It's Alec, of course there'll be explosives.”

“Definitely explosives in the stuffing, then. Should I call bomb disposal?”

“And let them eat all the food?” Q manages to roll off the couch in one lazy movement, shoulder joints popping as he stretches. “Fat chance I’m braving the crowds for Christmas dinner tonight. Come on, I’m think I saw mince pies next to the carrots.”

  


* * *

  


**Safe to eat** , says the placard placed neatly on top of the carrots and Bond eyes it with thinly veiled trepidation, insisting that he poke through every single dish before letting Q go near anything. The fact that the card is in Alec’s spiky handwriting should be warning enough, but like Q said, death by turkey is slightly more preferable to death by Christmas crowds in Central London.

“I don’t think he’d actually want to kill us, right?” Next to Bond who’s currently inspecting a bowl of gravy, Q is carefully takes a mince pie apart with chopsticks, poking at each piece of dried fruit. No sharp objects and no obvious trace of sedatives.

Good enough to eat, then.

“No, I don’t think he will.” Bond tips the bowl back and forth, finally dipping a finger in the sauce to taste. Ah, mushroom. “He knows the paperwork is too much of a hassle.”

“Tell me about it.”

Q puts the first spoonful of mince pie into his mouth and chews gingerly, but 30 seconds pass and he doesn’t have to hit the speed dial for Biological Weapons Research, which means everything on the table should be edible.

Maybe.

Probably.

Bond doesn’t quite like the look of the buttered parsnips, but Bond is a child who has to be force-fed vegetables on most days, so his opinion doesn’t count.

  


* * *

  


“So did they charge you extra for the home delivery?”

“Nah, I showed them my gun. Q’s home security was an utter bitch to get through, though.”

“As it should be.”

Eve reaches into the takeout bag next to her, handing the night-vision binoculars over to Alec while she tackles unwrapping a Christmas wrap from Pret while sitting precariously on the 9th floor fire-escape of the the building opposite Q’s. Another average evening, basically. 

“Do you think they’re going to notice the mistletoe?”

“They’d better,” mumbles Alec as he peers through the lens. “That was harder to get up than the whole of Q branch. Bloody fancy modern art light fixtures, god.”

“You didn’t even do Q branch,” Eve points out.

“Well okay, so it was easier to scare and intimidate the night staff, so sue me. I’m a spy, not an interior decorator.”

Eve sighs and takes another bite of warm, tortilla wrapped turkey.

“You know,” she says after making it through a quarter of the wrap. “You could have just maybe barred their access into MI6 or something less drastic, if you wanted them to stay home for Christmas.”

“And miss out on all the fun?” Alec snorts, holding his hand out for the wrap which Eve graciously surrenders, receiving a recently liberated military grade pair of night-vision binoculars in return. “Please, I'll have you know that I am now in possession of numerous photos of Bond in that sweater.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“High resolution," Alec says gleefully around a mouthful. "You can see the individual stitches. And this is a damned good wrap, by the way."

"Pret does it again. And stop moving, you're going to get cranberry sauce everywhere."

Suddenly, Alec’s roundabout way of doing things doesn’t seem so bad after all.

  


* * *

  


Q is forcibly spooning carrots onto Bond’s plate when a thought occurs to him, resulting in half a serving ending up on the table.

“Do you think they’re watching us?” Q asks as he tries and fails to salvage a fallen carrot.

“I know we’re being watched,” Bond says breezily in reply. He's currently quietly rejoicing in the fact that half a serving of carrots gone equates to half a serving he doesn’t have to eat. Fucking carrots. Bond is an _adult_ ; he'll eat whatever he damn well wants. “Fire escape across the street. They’ve been there since around...oh I don't know, two hours ago? Three?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Bond shrugs and spears another slice of ham off the serving plate in front of him. “Would it have made a difference? It’s not like you were going to strip naked and dance around naked with the turkey.”

“Huh,” Q says intelligently. "Now that's an idea."

Maybe it says something about Q's career choice when the knowing that they’ve been under observation for the past evening doesn’t result in Q feeling anything more than vaguely impressed. London is cold in December.

“Also, Alec just texted to say we should appreciate the mistletoe. And that there’s an inter-department Christmas line dancing event on tomorrow, if we happen to go into HQ.”

“We're not going in," Q says quickly and this is met with a vigorous nod of approval from Bond.

That said, Q ends up looking up to the ceiling all the same, and sure enough, there’s a sprig of all-too-familiar green dangling above the table. Mistletoe. Of course. It's only due to a very thin veneer of control and the fact that Q doesn't like heights that Q doesn't climb onto his chair to rip the offending specimen of flora down.

“You know,” Bond says casually as he takes advantage of Q’s distraction to shove some carrots off his plate and back into the bowl. “Even with your branch full of it, we didn’t exactly...”

“Kiss under the mistletoe and traumatise everyone in the immediate vicinity?”

“I know your programmers are all delicate virgins, Q, but you need to give them some credit. Porn does exist on the internet, after all.”

“Not porn involving your immediate superior, I’ll warrant.” Q tears his attention away from the sprig to look at Bond who just looks incredibly smug.

“Are you so sure about that?”

Q rolls his eyes, but he leans over the table all the same, tugging Bond gently by the collar so that they meet halfway.

“You’re insufferable,” he says fondly. “And we’re going to give the stakeout team out there a show, so put your back into this, okay?”

“Have I ever not approached this with anything less than–”

“Less talk, more porn.”

Bond closes the space between them and Q doesn't even mention that he saw what Bond did with the carrots.

  


* * *

  


(“Oh god,” mumbles Eve, eyes still glued to the binoculars. “Oh god, someone send Q branch a fruit basket for New Years or something, the clarity on this thing is absolutely marvellous. I can see _everything_.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” agrees Alec and stealthily steals the last bit of Christmas wrap out of Eve’s hand.)

**Author's Note:**

> /awkward shuffle/ So uh I don't think this actually adhered very well with the prompt, but I hope everyone (especially you, adreaminglamb <3) enjoyed it all the same? Happy belated holidays!
> 
> (Also, idek about other countries, but Pret's Christmas wraps in Hong Kong are _to die for_ , hence their sudden featuring in this here fic urgh so good why)


End file.
